Requiem
by Iamthechosenone13
Summary: Post Reichenbach. "John had tried, so hard, to forget Sherlock. To move on and be happy. He had tried to meet someone, someone he could settle down with, but had found nobody. He had simply been existing ever since, never moving forward. He no longer felt needed or useful to anybody in any way." Rated T for some serious angst. Proceed with caution! Can be read as Johnlock.


**Hello once again,**

**I know what you might be thinking…she's gone for posting nothing, to twice in a single day! I had a bit of a setback, which made me not want to post anything for a while. But I won't go into that!  
This is the second idea put forward by my friend…I just brought it to life a little. And for that I am truly, honestly sorry. I apologise in advance!  
Another thing I wanted to mention was my multi chapter 'Nobody Said It Was Easy." I'm really not proud of that one and, although I had a case all planned out for Sherlock to solve, I highly doubt I will be updating it. Sorry.  
Again, I did read through this and changed any mistakes I noticed, but I may have overlooked some.  
Anyway, hope you enjoy this one!**

Requiem 

John admired the view from where he was standing, squinting a little as the cold wind stung his face. Being here brought back so many memories…bad ones. It had been a long time since he had been here, almost three years. He closed his eyes as the memories came flooding back, his legs trembling. Standing there on the ground, completely powerless and unable to do anything, watching Sherlock plummet to the ground before his very eyes. Sherlock hadn't just died that day…John had too.  
John had tried, so hard, to forget Sherlock. To move on and be happy. He had tried to meet someone, someone he could settle down with, but had found nobody. He had simply been existing ever since, never moving forward. He no longer felt needed or useful to anybody in any way.  
The only people he really talked to anymore were Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper. He had seen Mycroft just once, at Sherlock's funeral…he didn't want to see him. He no longer kept in contact with Greg, they had drifted apart.  
There were only two things that had kept him from returning sooner. One was fear. He was still scared now, but he was sure that he had made the right decision. The other was Molly. Molly had been so kind to him, tried to help him in any way she could. She had been there for him at his lowest points. She was still there for him now, but he knew that her help wasn't enough anymore.  
For a while, he had gone back to having his sessions with Ella, his therapist. That had carried on until about a month ago, when he finally realised that she wasn't helping him at all. Nothing changed and nobody made it better. He had been taking anti-depressants for a long time, but even they didn't seem to help. They made it worse if anything.  
He no longer kept his blog going. He had nothing to write about. People didn't want to hear about his problems.  
His sister, Harry, had gone with him to Sherlock's funeral, even though she had never met him. That day she had promised, if he ever needed her, she would be there for him. But, like so many times before, she had broken her promise. She wasn't there for him and she never had been, even after all he had done for her when they were growing up.  
He had parents, but they weren't in contact. They hadn't been for a number of years. When Harry came out to them, all those years ago when John was 17, they had not been accepting at all. They were furious, especially their father. They told Harry that she wasn't welcome anymore, that she wasn't natural. This had outraged John, and he had tried to stand up for Harry. Which was when his Dad dropped the bomb…if he took Harry's side, he would be out of a home. John had instantly shouted back that he didn't want to live with parents who resented their own child for who they were, and packed his things. He had lived with Harry in her tiny little flat until he had pulled together enough money for a place of his own.  
It was like he had been given a new lease of life when he joined the army. Being deployed to Afghanistan was terrifying, yet exciting at the same time. Harry hadn't taken the news well...but she had Clara by then, so he was sure she would be alright. He certainly didn't expect to receive a letter from Clara while out in Afghan, telling him that she was struggling with a drinking problem.  
He had really enjoyed his job. It was intense and horrific at times, but he loved it. But of course, his happiness was short lived.  
After being injured, he was flown back to the UK for emergency surgery. He had been lucky to survive.  
After that, he had just slipped back into ordinary life. It was boring and stale, with nothing to look forward to. He had felt so alone at the time, he had no friends to speak of and he and Harry were barely speaking.  
Meeting Sherlock had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. His life was turned upside down, and became exciting and unpredictable once again. He had finally found someone he was sure would stay in his life forever. A best friend. But like they say, all good things come to an end.

XXX

Molly Hooper pulled up into the small car park situated behind St. Bart's hospital. She hummed happily as she cut the engine, glancing into the mirror of her car to check her hair looked okay. Satisfied with her appearance, she opened the door of her car and climbed out, locking it behind her. She slung her bag over her shoulder and began to walk toward the hospital. She smiled as the sun came out from behind a cloud, and she glanced toward the sky. Something caught her eye though, and she did a double take, glancing to the roof of the hospital. Her heart thudded in her chest as she saw a figure standing on the edge of the rooftop. She was sure she recognised the check print of the shirt the man was wearing. She squinted, praying to God that she wasn't seeing this. She rushed closer, craning her neck to look up. It was him…definitely. She dropped her bag from her shoulder, landing with a thump onto the pavement bedside her. She rummaged in her jacket pocket, searching for her mobile phone. Tearing it out, she quickly found the number she wanted in her contacts and pressed dial. He answered on the third ring.  
"Sherlock, it's John. He's on the roof of St. Bart's…I think he's going to jump.

XXX

As soon as Molly had finished speaking, Sherlock hung up the phone and rushed to the door of his room. He had been staying with Mycroft all this time, away from prying eyes. He looked different…thinner, older. His hair was long and unkempt, he hardly ever bothered with his looks anymore. Hardly bothered with anything, apart from trying to track down Sebastian Moran.  
He grabbed his old, black coat from the hook on the back of his door and sprinted downstairs. He burst into his brothers office, where he was sitting serenely at his desk, reading a newspaper.  
"Mycroft, it's John. He's going to commit suicide. I need you to get me to St. Bart's hospital as quickly as possible."

XXX

Molly thundered up the stairs to the roof, struggling with her bag swinging on her shoulder. She burst through the door and onto the rooftop.  
"John!" she shouted. "What are you doing?"  
John turned around slowly to face her.  
"I'm sorry Molly. I can't do this anymore. I just can't." he confessed, the tears finally beginning to dribble down his cheeks.  
"You can John, you can! I can help you, you need to stay alive. You're stronger than this." she retorted.  
"No Molly. I'm not. I'm not strong anymore. I'm miserable, I can't carry on like this anymore. I want to be happy. I want to see Sherlock again." he sniffed, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand.  
It was then that John heard the police sirens wailing from somewhere behind him. He stared at Molly wide eyed, his mouth falling open.  
"Molly…why did you do that? Why did you call the police?" he shouted accusingly.  
"I didn't John, I swear! I wouldn't do that, not when you're in this situation! Please John…don't do it." she pleaded, her own tears starting to fall.  
"Goodbye Molly. Thank you for everything." he said, turning back to look out over London, just as a police car drew up on the ground beneath him. He heard Molly scream his name and begin to run toward him, but John took a deep breath and stepped from the ledge.

XXX

For John, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he fell toward the ground. The police officers climbed out of the car at half the speed, movements slow and blurred. John noticed another man jump out from the back of the police car. A man with an unruly cluster of black curls atop his head.  
He watched as the man stood rooted to the spot, tilting his head to see John falling toward him, a mixture of shock, horror and sadness crossing his face.  
John would recognise that face anywhere. The face that had haunted his dreams for far too long. Sherlock. Sherlock was alive? A smile crossed his face, moments before his body hit the ground with a sickening crack.

XXX

"No." Sherlock gasped. He rushed toward the slumped body of John Hamish Watson, almost gagging as he took in the awful sight before him. John was sprawled out on the pavement, eyes open yet unseeing. Blood was pouring in bright red streams from the wound on his head. Sherlock fell to his knees beside his best friend, his trousers absorbing a good amount of blood. As he bent closer, he saw the faint trace of a smile on the good doctors' face. He must have seen him getting out of the car as he was falling. Sherlock's face crumpled in pain. He reached out and took John's hand in his, placing his fingers onto his pulse point, even though he knew there was no chance he could be alive. He wrapped his arms around his friends' lifeless body, holding him in his arms, a single tear running down his face. He pulled one hand away, and used it to gently close John's eyes. The tears were streaming now, probably more than he had ever cried in his entire life.  
"I'm so sorry John." he spluttered. He was aware of police officers trying to pull him away from John. He lay John back onto the pavement, gripping his hand again. He leant over John and pressed a tiny kiss to his best friends' forehead, before getting to his feet and running, as fast as he could, away from the scene.

XXX

Sherlock tore blindly through the streets of London. He was shaking violently and crying, trying to get as far away from the horrific scene as he could. He couldn't cope with this, he really couldn't. Everything was his fault.  
He stumbled onto the kerb and threw his arm out to hail a passing taxi.  
Giving them Mycroft's address, he sank back into the uncomfortable, trying to keep a hold on the searing pain that was spreading through his body.  
"Actually, can I stop off somewhere first?" he asked the cab driver.  
"Where to?" the driver grunted back.  
"221B Baker Street."

XXX

When he returned to Mycroft's home, he sat on his bed, holding John's favourite jumper in his arms. The cream coloured wool smelt just like John. He stroked the wool with his fingers, a wave of grief passing over him. Even though he had been living without John for almost three years now, at least he had known he was alive. Alive and safe. Now he had nobody. Nobody on this Earth who truly loved him for who he was. His best friend was gone, never to return.  
Sherlock turned to his bedside table, eyes fixed on the one other item he had brought with him from 221B. John's gun. He lay the jumper in his lap and picked up the gun, turning it over in his hands. It brought back memories. But the same picture kept bringing itself to the front of his mind…the picture of John lying dead on the pavement.  
What was the point in staying here? If John wasn't alive, there was nothing holding him to this Earth at all. He couldn't survive without him, he knew that. Well, he could, but only if he knew he was alive, safe and…happy. Mycroft had always told Sherlock that John was happy, that he was moving on. That he was coping well. It was obvious now that he hadn't been truthful. He knew what he had to do.  
He closed his eyes, working hard to conjure up an image of John in his mind. He succeeded, picturing him laughing, blue eyes shining in delight, beaming at him. Sherlock smiled to himself at the picture, simultaneously bringing the gun up to his head, resting it on his temple.  
Holding the picture in his head, he smiled once again, before saying one last word.  
"John."

XXX

They were finally happy. Finally at peace and finally together. They could dance among the stars forevermore, never to be forced apart.


End file.
